


When I Saw You Dreaming

by Nicoleeoli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, One-Shot, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Slash, Smut, Voyeurism, fantasies, john tires to fuck a pillow, unconscious masturbation, very mild dub-con (kinda....)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 03:15:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2757500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicoleeoli/pseuds/Nicoleeoli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the past few months, John has been having trouble NOT thinking about Sherlock like THAT. Tonight is no different. In fact, it's worse than ever when Sherlock falls asleep on the couch and has an interesting dream.  </p><p>First fic! Feedback is appreciated!</p>
            </blockquote>





	When I Saw You Dreaming

John walked quickly into his room, shutting the door behind him and staring around frantically. He was so goddamn hard, and he needed release now. His hand wasn't going to be enough this time; too disassociated. He needed something to rut against. But what? He stepped to the edge of his bed and undid his jeans quickly, shucking them off with his pants and socks. He could hardly think he was so hard. This wouldn't take long, that was for sure. He snatched the firmest pillow off his bed, turned it on its side and straddled it. He leaned forward a bit to angle his heavy cock onto it better and rutted. The cotton stuffed pillow felt good pressed against his balls, and the friction on the underside of his cock was acceptable. But it wasn't enough. It wasn't what he needed. With his hand, he pressed his cock down into the pillow more firmly to give it more friction and stimulation. Better. But still not good enough. Of course, what he really needed was a body; a warm, willing body that would be slick and tight.

His overstimulated mind was disorganized; a dozen different erotic pictures and ideas flitting through it, as if he couldn't decide what would turn him on most, or get him off fastest. A beautiful woman underneath him, thighs spread wide, her pussy swollen and dripping wet as he rodgered into her, her breasts bouncing with each of his thrusts. He thought about that image for a few minutes before his mind switched and gave him the image of a pale back, angled down away from him, leading to a head of familiar dark, messy curls framing a face which was mashed on one side into the mattress, a pale but beautiful ass between his hands as he watched his dark cock push in and out of it. He imagined holding those sharp, thin hips on either side and pulling the male he was fucking back onto him with increasing desperation. Fuck, the pillow thing wasn't working. He stood up and kept lightly jerking himself off as he scanned the room for something-anything-that would make him feel like he was actually with a body. Even the soft sound of his wanking was a turn on to him, and he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled a small bottle of lube out of the drawer on his bedside table. He slicked himself quickly and watched himself jerk off, as other images and situations passed through his mind’s eye. Another’s hand there, working him off. Then another mouth. Suddenly, he saw the dark top of his flatmate’s head between his thighs, bobbing backward and forward as he sucked John off. 

John exhaled deeply and leaned back on his elbow, stroking himself faster and shorter. Suddenly his mind conjured for him the image of Sherlock Holmes, standing up from his imaginary position on the floor and straddling John’s hips. He would take John’s penis in his hand and line it up with his own entrance before slowly but steadily sinking down onto him, meanwhile taking himself in his own hand. He’d look John right in the face as he started to move his hips and hand simultaneously. ‘Fuck!’ John thought, as he squeezed his eyes shut tight and threw his head back. He gritted his teeth hard and his hand worked furiously, focusing on the head of his aching and leaking cock. The scene kept playing for him in his head and the idea of Sherlock wanking, while sinking down over John’s cock, and how deep and dark with arousal his eyes would be was such a fucking wonderful image that he came spectacularly, ribbons of white cum spurting into the air above his hand and then landing in messy splotches on his belly, thighs, fist, and sheets. He opened his eyes and let his shoulders fall back onto the mattress, still slowly and gently working his softening cock. He kept stroking low on the shaft and reached his other hand down to massage his own balls until he was completely soft again. 

Fuck, that had been a good wank. John had sat in agony in his armchair downstairs for a long time, trying not to think too many inappropriate thoughts about his roommate, who had been sprawled on the couch next to him the entire evening. It had all started when John had been on the Internet, trying to work on his blog when a pop-up ad had appeared on the side of his screen, advertising porn, of course. He hadn't quite gotten all the viruses cleaned off since that one shameful night a couple of weeks previous when he had pulled up porn on his laptop and succumbed to a hearty waking session in his bedroom late one night. He was too proud to ask Sherlock for help cleaning it or taking it to a repair shop. He’d been fighting his arousal for his flatmate all that day, too. Sherlock had worm that purple shirt of his that always made John catch his breath when Sherlock emerged from his bedroom in the morning, wearing it. They’d run around on a case all day and John had tried to keep his eyes off the triangle of skin at the open neck of the Purple Shirt of Sex (as he had dubbed it in his brain), or Sherlock’s thin, angular hips (that really were just begging to have John’s hands grab on to either side), or Sherlock’s ass in those perfectly-fitting slacks. The case ended with Sherlock jumping into the Thames. And even though he smelled like a sewer all the way back to Baker Street, John hadn't been able to ignore the two points of Sherlock’s hard nipples that were now visible under the shirt, which clung flatteringly to his lithe frame, slightly see-through now that it was soaked through. John could just make out a shadow of a line of hair running from Sherlock’s navel down to the top of his trousers, and the outline of top abdominal muscles, as he panted with exhilaration from the case. 

Tonight had been even worse, though. Though he immediately closed the pop up ad (he didn't need to go down that road again, thank you very much), it had advertised both men and women, and he had registered a rack of gigantic, perky bare breasts, as well as a large, thick cock held in (presumably) its owner’s hand before the ad had disappeared. John was only human, and a bisexual human at that, and he hadn't been able to help the quick pang of interest that had shot through his body at the sight of those 2 things. His cock had twitched before he had determinedly returned his attention to his blog. But just a moment later, Sherlock flounced out of his bedroom, looking….utterly delectable. He had on only a dressing gown and a pair of threadbare silk pajama bottoms. His chest was bare and the gown was untied, so it fluttered behind him as he strode quickly into the living room. His chest was gorgeous; just slightly toned from Sherlock’s natural thinness and all the running the pair of them did (God knows Sherlock never actually worked out. Transport and all that…..) But this was exactly what John liked. He’d seen enough buff guys in the army, and while sometimes he’d appreciated a comrade’s body from afar, in general, an overabundance of muscle turned him off. He preferred a frame like Sherlock’s: thin, with just enough toned muscle over the frame to give it a certain sturdiness; nice lines along the biceps and forearms; large, strong hands; and a long, toned back with muscled that rolled under the skin when in motion. It was simply unfair of the Universe to give his strictly platonic flatmate the ideal body John looked for in a lover. When Sherlock had entered the room bare-chested, John had noticed immediately that trail of hair he had caught the shadow of under Sherlock’s wet shirt a fortnight ago. His brain was screaming at him to not stare, but John couldn't help but look long enough to note the light dusting of dark hair that formed something of a triangle in the dead center of Sherlock’s chest, spreading out thinly along the underside of each pectoral muscle. He also noticed the dark pink color of each of his nipples, and the beautiful curve of his hip bones, each becoming a line of muscle from the outside of his hip, down and inward until they disappeared below the waistband of Sherlock’s low-slung pajama bottoms, along with that trail of fine hairs from his navel. It all seemed to be pointing John’s attention straight to what he knew was laying against Sherlock’s thighs, tucked away from John’s sight or access. He had wrenched his eyes away from this sight as soon as he could and stared fixedly at his screen. Sherlock had sat down heavily on the couch, put his elbows on each of his knees and dropped his head in his hands. He ruffled his already messy curls in apparent frustration and, deep in thought, flopped down onto his back long ways on the couch. John had chanced another glance at him and immediately regretted it. His bare chest and belly were just as distracting in this position, but John could now also make out the unmistakable outline of Sherlock’s balls and penis under his this pajama bottoms. He must not be wearing any underwear under there! He had one leg bent up and the knee fell open to rest on the back of the couch, while the other leg lay off the edge so his left foot was flat on the floor. He threw both arms over his head to fall backwards over the armrest behind his head, and John had to close his eyes. 

This prone position was very unusual for Sherlock, whose usual pose on the couch resembled a corpse far too much for John’s particular liking. The position hollowed out his belly and arched his lower back, while expanding his chest and ribs. It was the perfect position for John to climb over top of him, one hand holding those wrists right where they were above Sherlock’s head. The image had flown unbidden into John’s mind, and he shook his head minutely and tried to refocus on his blog. But he couldn't. Sherlock stayed like that, breathing deeply and clearly deep in thought, for a long time. John couldn't stop his eyes from darting back over to look at a different part of Sherlock’s body every few seconds. His sides, his abdomen, the outline of his cock and balls he could still make out. It was maddening. He shifted in his seat, feeling himself grow partially hard. After about 10 minutes, John noticed that Sherlock’s breathing had evened out. Sure enough, Sherlock had fallen asleep in that ridiculous position. His head was turned slightly to the back of the couch, tilted back to expose a tendon in his beautiful long neck, which John immediately wanted to suck. He allowed himself a slightly longer look this time, since there was no chance Sherlock would catch him. He felt a pang of guilt, though, as his eyes raked down Sherlock’s body. Sherlock had given him no indication that he was interested sexually in…well, anything. He had not given John permission to look at him this way or to think these thoughts. John wondered if what he was doing was unforgivable for a flatmate to do. Surely, if Sherlock knew, he would feel uncomfortable with John continuing to live at 221B. But when John’s eyes got down to the band of Sherlock’s bottoms again, all thought left his head. The faint outline of Sherlock’s cock and balls had become much more noticeable now. Sherlock was partially hard.

John’s cock twitched again, but no, this was definitely wrong. He wrenched his eyes away again, but couldn't concentrate on his blog. Giving up, he closed the tab and tried to distract himself by surfing the Internet a bit. But his mind was still on Sherlock. He glanced back over, despite himself. Sherlock had become even harder in his sleep. He was now tenting his pajamas a bit, though John could tell he was still not quit at full mast. He bit his lip and shifted in his chair again, uncomfortable with his own growing erection. He could just get up and leave, but the noise would definitely wake Sherlock, and there would be no hiding his own erection if Sherlock saw him without the cover of his desk. John spent another few minutes staring blankly at his laptop screen, trying to stop his mind going where it so desperately wanted to go (i.e., what would happen after if John did crawl over Sherlock and pin his wrists. He would want to lower his hips to press their erections against each other, and maybe Sherlock would arch up into him, too). But suddenly, Sherlock shifted. His arms came down from over his head, but one hand landed directly on his own erection. In his sleep, Sherlock was subconsciously cupping himself.  
John’s hips bucked forward minutely of their own accord at this sight, and he closed his eyes. This was too much. Suddenly, all John could think about was whether this was normal for Sherlock. It’s normal for pretty much all blokes, John knew, but Sherlock? Did Sherlock ever touch himself consciously? If so, how often? Maybe this moment was a freak accident that the Universe had cruelly decided John would be witness to. Did Sherlock masturbate?? 

A possible answer to this unspoken question was suddenly supplied, when Sherlock made a small noise in is sleep. His head turned so that it was laying on the other side now, facing John, and his fingers moved slowly and in very small movements up and down him now fully erect penis, still inside his pajamas. Sherlock must be dreaming, John realized. He studied his face. Sherlock’s mouth was barely open, but his breath was coming out from there, and not his nose. His brow was slightly furrowed. Sherlock was having a dirty dream, John realized. He could not even believe it. He reached down and pressed the heel of his palm against his now raging erection. It was starting to be truly uncomfortable in these jeans…

He exhaled at the slight relief this gave him, more from the contact of his hand than the re-arranged position. He looked down at his own crotch and tried to decide what was best to do. The longer he stayed here, the worse the situation would get, he know. The more he thought about what Sherlock was unconsciously doing just a few feet from him, the harder and harder he got.  
Finally Sherlock inhaled deeply and shifted again. His leg on the floor fell open a bit wider, his head turning back to the middle. His hand, tough, began to stroke himself with some earnest, however.  
That was it. John was done. That was all he could take. He leaned back in his chair and put his hand to his raging hard cock. He watched Sherlock directly. As Sherlock moved his fingers loosely up and down his straining erection, John dragged his own hand from the base to the tip of his cock, still trapped in his jeans. His heart sped up and his breathing became shallow with arousal. His zipper began to press painfully into his erection, but in truth, the denial of his intense want was only fueling it further. He pushed his hips up against the flat of his hand. Another, tiny noise escaped Sherlock’s lips; half sigh, half moan, and his hand suddenly disappeared under the hem of his bottoms.  
Oh fuck. Oh fuck. John watched was Sherlock’s pajama bottoms moved up and down as Sherlock stroked himself underneath them. He was gaining friction and his breath was getting shallower and shallower. John knew he could wake up any second now. But not yet. Please not yet, Sherlock. John was so turned on now there was no going back.  
He rubbed himself with the heel of his hand harder and imagined. He imagined a scene just like this, watching Sherlock let his hand fly over himself as he watched John do the same; their mutual voyeurism fueling each other’s want. He imagined falling off his chair onto his knees in front of Sherlock and spreading his legs with his hands as he took Sherlock into his mouth. He imagined Sherlock sitting up, spreadeagled, and beckoning John to climb into his lap and ride him. He imagined riding Sherlock.  
John wrapped his fingers as far around himself as he could get while his jeans remained closed. Oh god, he couldn't take this torture any more. He needed release. And that’s when had bolted to his room, rubbing himself through his jeans as he took the stairs 2 by 2 up to his bedroom, like a teenager. 

 

Sherlock had indeed awoken when John bolted. He awoke to find himself completely hard with his hand down his pants and John fleeing to his room. Damn. This was definitely a bit not good. Sherlock was usually completely in control of his own sexual urges and managed them efficiently when his body absolutely demanded it. In his opinion, his sex drive served no useful function. So it was ignored when inconvenient. It was all just transport, anyway.  
However, he had noticed a significant uptick in the frequency of his masturbation sessions in the last few months. Often now, he would return from a case, still high on the adrenaline, and feel the need to escape to his room for a quick release, unable to ignore his body’s desires until the urge went away. He had tried ignoring them when they first began, but found that strategy insufficient. The longer he waited to address the problem, the worse it got. Especially when John stayed downstairs with him, instead of going to his own room to collapse in exhaustion after a tough case.  
In his aroused state, Sherlock was ultra-perceptive to John’s unique smell, which fueled his arousal even more. He had been stupid not to predict that this would happen. Sherlock had been forced to confront the facts of his attraction to John Watson months ago, when he had finally recognized his jealousy of John’s latest girlfriend for what it really was. But controlling his impulses in his sleep was something he had not mastered. Yet. 

Sherlock debated what to do; be properly English about this whole thing and pretend he had no idea that John had just witnessed him masturbating in his sleep and had fled in disgust and terror? Or apologize. How would John react to the latter? Would ignoring it breed awkwardness in their relationship, or otherwise cause any problems? More data was needed. He decided he would at least go up to John’s door to eavesdrop and gather some information about John’s current state and reaction to what he’d so unfortunately been forced to witness. His erection had waned in the embarrassment of his realization when he awoke, so he didn't have to worry about that. He got up and padded silently up the stairs. When he got to John’s room, though, he heard the strangest noises.

It sounded as if John was having sex with someone. John had brought home enough girlfriends during his time at 221B, and had been sufficiently charming to enough of them that Sherlock had heard John having sex before. The house was extremely old, after all, and John’s room was directly above Sherlock’s.  
Sherlock could hear the rhythmic, slight squeak of John’s bed springs, though quieter than normal, and the slight whisper of knees against cotton. What was missing, however, were the soft keening sounds John elicited so well from his partners, as well as his own steady stream of endearments, encouragements, and, sometimes, expletives.  
The soft noises suddenly stopped and Sherlock heard John move swiftly around the room. He heard another creak of the mattress (louder this time. John sitting down, Sherlock deduced), then the slide of a wooden drawer (his bedside table), a slight pause, and then the unmistakable slick sound of a well lubricated wank. Sherlock was hard again in an instant. John hadn't been mortified by what he’d seen Sherlock doing; he’d been turned on by it. Immensely, if the vigor with which he was apparently relieving himself now was any indication.

Sherlock craned his neck to hear more and was rewarded with the labored breathing of John Watson approaching orgasm. Sherlock couldn't stop his hand from grasping his own erection, which was jutting demandingly out from him torso by now. He heard John shift slightly on the mattress, moan very slightly, and could detect a slight increase in speed and a shortening of his strokes. He was close. Very close.  
Sherlock’s balls pulled tight against his body and he couldn't believe how aroused he was himself. He stroked himself firmly but remained completely silent.  
Suddenly, he heard John grit out a moan. The slick sounds stopped. He was coming. Oh god, John was coming. Sherlock knew it. He could see clearly in his mind’s eye John, beautiful prick in hand, muscles all taught lines and bulges, ejaculating ribbons of cum onto himself.  
The image was incredibly filthy, and also the most beautiful thing Sherlock could imagine. He opened his mouth a silent moan and covered his prick with the fabric of his pajama bottoms to catch everything. He kept his eyes closed, mouth open for a few minutes, as the last contractions of his muscles expelled a couple more weaker ribbons of cum from his prick, and he relaxed into the wonderful post-orgasm high. 

He worked to get his breath under control so that he would not be heard, while at the same time, he heard John in his room audibly panting. He heard John stand to grab a flannel and clean himself off. Sherlock remained perfectly still and silent for a few more moments as he came down. His legs were having a hard enough time holding himself up against the wall as it was. He didn't want to take a clumsy step and reveal himself.  
John was walking to throw the dirty flannel into the hamper when Sherlock let his head fall back against the wall in exhausted satisfaction. *Thunk*

Shit. John’s movements froze inside his room and then suddenly the door was being whipped open. John appeared at the crack of the door, completely naked from the waist down, the tails of his checkered shirt just covering him. He stared at Sherlock, half crumpled against the wall, one hand still inside his pajama bottoms, and the evidence of what had just happened soaking their front.  
John’s eyes widened as he took it all in. He stared at the wet and shiny area of Sherlock’s silk pajama bottoms and then looked up into Sherlock’s eyes. For once, Sherlock had no idea what to say.  
But before he could think of anything, John had stepped fully out of his room and had surged Sherlock. John took Sherlock’s face in both his hands, cupping either side of his jaw, and he was pushed against the wall even further as John kissed him.  
John was kissing him. Kissing him. Not angry. Not disgusted. Not even that surprised. He had put everything – all the signs they had both been given over the last couple months - together in 1 second flat and had known exactly what course of action he wanted to take. And this was it. 

John’s breath was warm and forceful against Sherlock’s cheek and his lips were full and soft, and pressed so hard against his mouth. Sherlock inhaled a sharp gasp through his nose before he was pushing back and kissing John too. He wrapped the arm of his clean hand around John’s back to pull him closer and removed his other hand from his trousers. They pressed against each other and kissed furiously. In this moment, everything had become clear. No more games. No more dancing around, no more wondering of the other felt the same. Sherlock understood that his whole world had changed in this instant. When they pulled apart, nothing would ever be the same again. And he was ok with that. Hell, he was more than OK with that….

With a slick slide of lips, John finally pulled back. He looked at Sherlock with fire in his eyes, as if everything he’d ever desired in life had just been presented to him.  
“Sherlock,” he said simply.  
Sherlock still didn't know what to say. “John,” he rasped back. He was surprised at the scratchiness of his own voice.  
“Come inside.”  
He pulled Sherlock away from the wall and into his bedroom, shutting the door behind them both.

THE END


End file.
